‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. ” The girl sat up and looked at him with a curious twist at the corners of her mouth —humorous or pathetic, he could not tell which. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. “Tell me his name,” he said, “and I promise that he shall never trouble you. "May I ask whether you made any further inquiries into the mysterious affair about which we were speaking just now?" observed Jackson, turning to the carpenter.
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